Never Deceive a Duke (8 page)

Her mouth still open beneath his, she gasped, and then hitched her leg higher, wrapping it almost desperately around him. Good God, what was she asking for?

He tore his mouth from hers. “Antonia,” he rasped. “What do you want?”

She lifted her face to the rain. “Make me forget,” she whispered. “Like this. I want to feel…something else.”

“Come inside with me.”

“No.” Her eyes flared with alarm. “No. Now.”

He let his mouth slide down her cheek, then skim hotly along her jaw. “Antonia, I don’t think…”

“No!” she said sharply. “We…we
cannot think
. I want only to
feel
.”

She kissed him again, hot and openmouthed, with a feverish desperation. She was an enchantress. A secret siren, calling to him. Oh, yes. Antonia had learnt the art of seduction well—and in that moment, he willed himself not to think of
where
she had learnt it.

In the heat and the madness, he had somehow lifted her against the bastion wall. Her leg was all but around his waist now, her warm hands and honeyed mouth more than a little reckless. He could not think about the storm. The lightning. The utter incredulity of what he was about to do. She was desire incarnate. Blood thundered in his head and throbbed in his cock, readily apparent beneath his scant nightclothes.

Antonia slid her delicately warm tongue into his mouth, thrusting and parrying with his own in a dance of rash desire. Spurred to urgency, Gareth fisted her wet nightgown in one hand and dragged it up. She did not resist but instead began to paw urgently at his dressing gown. He knew what she wanted. He pushed away his clothes and felt their warm flesh meet beneath the tangle of muslin and linen. He could not wait.

“Your other leg,” he choked. “Put it—put it around—yes, my waist.”

He set her back to the tower wall and, lifting her delicately in his hands, spread her wide. “Antonia, is this what you want?” he demanded.

“Yes.”
Her voice was feverish. “I want you. Desperately. Don’t stop.”

He kissed her again, then let his cock slide into the welcoming folds of warm, creamy flesh. Balancing her weight against his body, he lifted her up, and thrust.

“Ah!” In the gloom, he could sense her shock.

“Antonia.” Gareth closed his eyes and prayed for control. “Oh, God. I—can’t—I don’t—”

“No,” she said swiftly. “Don’t think. Don’t
stop
.”

He thrust again, pulling her pelvis to his. It was all he could do to control his motions, to keep himself in check rather than ravish her like an animal. Antonia exhaled in a long, breathless sigh. A sound of yearning. Rain spattered all about them. Thunder rolled far in the distance. Again, he lifted her, thrusting deep. Then somehow, he found a shred of sense and managed to free one hand and slide it delicately between them. Her cry of shock had told him more than her bold actions had. He found her clitoris, sweetly firm beneath his fingertips, and lightly rubbed. In response, Antonia gasped again and let her head fall back against the stone tower.

He pumped himself into her, watching the rain run down the swanlike length of her throat. Watched her swallow hard, then begin to moan. He sensed he ought not speak; ought do nothing to spoil the impulsiveness and the near-anonymity of what they did. The passion between them was palpable. Never had he felt so unrestrained; so desperate to possess a woman, body and soul. Deep inside her, his cock throbbed with heat and blood. His body cried out with the urgency of his need as he thrust.

Antonia’s breath was coming sharp and fast. Lightning lit the horizon again, revealing her face, which was lifted to the sky in an expression of nearing ecstasy. He worked her more furiously, touching and thrusting, their bodies rain-slick and sweating. Antonia’s fingers dug deep into the flesh of his shoulders. Her entire body shuddered. She cried out like a wild thing, her gaze locking with his. And then she was lost to it.

Gareth drew out and thrust deep again. Over and over he pounded his flesh into her throbbing sheath, his head thrown back in release when at last his seed flooded forth, spurting inside her in waves of guilty pleasure. Spent, they clung to one another in the rain, her legs and arms still about him, their bodies still throbbing. For a time, Gareth shut out all thought and simply felt. Felt the heat of her slender body through their wet clothes. Felt her warm sheath relax about his cock. The softness of her breath on his ear. And then he felt vaguely ashamed of what he’d just done.

Antonia’s spine still rested against the tower wall. “The stone,” he finally managed. “It must hurt.”

She said nothing. As if by mutual agreement, they unwrapped one another, Antonia sliding down his length until her feet touched the wet flagstone of the rampart. His wet robe slithered damply down his legs. Antonia dropped her head, and tenderly, he restored her clothing to order. The rain was slacking off now. The storm had passed.

Gently, he slid a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. The blank look was returning to her eyes. Dear Lord, what had they done? Everything about this troubled him. Even the seductive anonymity no longer felt right.

“Antonia,” he rasped. “Antonia, I want you to say my name.”

In the gloom, he sensed uncertainty sketch across her face. He set both hands on her shoulders as if he might shake her. “Antonia,
who am I?
”

Suddenly, a faint light trembled inside the tower beyond. Shuffling footsteps echoed far below in the stairwell. Antonia moved as if to go, and he caught her arm.

“My name,” he repeated. “I just want to hear it once from your lips.”

“Gabriel,” she whispered, looking back at him. “You are…the angel Gabriel.”

He let her go.

Gabriel
. It was not his name. Not any longer.

“My lady?” A servant’s voice called gently up the stairwell. “Your Grace, are you up there?”

She slipped through the bastion’s opening, then vanished down the dark and twisting stairs. She was safe. She was gone.

So what was he waiting for? Gareth turned and walked swiftly back along the rampart to the opposite end. The drizzle was cold on his face now, his slippers and clothing were sopping. He was chilled, he realized. But all the anguish and all the physical discomfort could not shut out that one awful question—what in God’s name had he just done?

G
abriel’s grandfather led him by the hand through the labyrinthine alleys of Moorgate. Dusk was fast turning to night, and shopkeepers were drawing their shades.

“Are we far from home,
Zayde?”

“Almost there, Gabriel,” he said. “Did you enjoy your visit to the bank? Impressive, eh?”

“I guess so,” he answered. “It was big.” Just then, a door further up the alley flew open, flooding the cobbled passageway with light. A rowdy gang of men burst out. The one in front was cursing and struggling to break free, but his arms were pinned.

“Sha shtil
!” whispered
Zayde
, yanking Gabriel into the shadows.

Pressed against a cold brick wall by his grandfather’s body, Gabriel could see nothing. But the shouts and the sound of a man’s boots being dragged past he could too easily hear.

“Let me go, damn you!” the man shouted. “Help! For God’s sake, help!”

“Bugger it, Nate!” grunted one of the men. “Thought you said ’e was too sotted ter fight!”

“Tie his feet then, damn you!”

“No! No! I’m a sailmaker!” the man bellowed. Gabriel could hear him struggling to throw off his captors. “I have a letter! I have protection! You cannot take me!”

“Oy gevalt
!” murmured his grandfather. “Poor devil.”

Soon the commotion was gone.
Zayde
grabbed Gabriel’s hand, and hastened away. The gang had vanished into the gloom. “What did that man do,
Zayde?”

“Drank too deep with men he did not know,” he said. “The English need sailors, and to the press gang, almost anyone is fair game.”

“But…but they cannot do that,” said Gabriel. “They cannot just take you away—c-can they?”

“Oy vey
, Gabriel!” said his grandfather. “This is why I tell you,
stay away
. Keep to yourself,
tatellah
, and to your own kind. But do you ever listen? Do you?”

He waited for her at breakfast; waited until the flames beneath the chafing dishes had sputtered their last and the coffee had gone cold. Waited until the footmen began to shift their weight uneasily, as if duty called them elsewhere. Still Antonia did not come.

Yes, Her Grace normally took breakfast in the parlor, one of the footmen confirmed. Yes, agreed another, Her Grace was a punctual and early riser. And so Gareth kept picking at his food and sipping at his coffee, waiting. He waited, in fact, until one of the passing housemaids actually poked her head inside the door of the breakfast parlor to scowl at the still-laden sideboard.

Coggins followed on her heels. “Mr. Watson has returned, Your Grace,” he said with a stiff bow. “He has sent the threshing machine down to the granary and awaits you at your convenience.”

There was no putting off the day and the work which lay before him. She wasn’t coming anyway. And what did he care? They could have no meaningful conversation with the damned footmen hovering over them like languid bumblebees. He supposed he had just wished to see her. To reassure himself that she was well.

But that was nonsense. The woman had a maid and an army of servants to fret over her. Gareth pushed back his chair with a scrape and tossed down his napkin. But as he strode through the house and out onto the long, rose-covered pergola which connected the main house to the estate offices and shops, he seethed with frustration.

He was being avoided. He sensed it.

Perhaps, he thought, as he hastened down the last flight of steps, she was just embarrassed? That he could understand. He felt fairly shamefaced himself. The mere thought of how desperately they had touched one another—the hunger, the raw, driving passion—could still make his hands shake. What they had done together in the rain last night could not now be undone. They would have to live with the memory of it, both of them, throughout the whole of their lives together.

Fleetingly, he considered refusing her permission to renovate Knollwood Manor. Then, surely, she would leave Selsdon and take up residence in Town? Perhaps they would need never see one another again.

But what if she did not leave? He had told her she might remain at Selsdon as long as she wished. And even if she went to Town, he might well have to see her. Both he and Xanthia would now be required to move in circles they might otherwise have managed to avoid. On the other hand, forcing Antonia to Town might be sending her into the gnashing teeth of the
ton—
where it was entirely possible she would be shunned, or worse.

Damn it
. He jerked to a halt and felt his jaw begin to twitch. This was a fine mess he’d landed himself in. It was untenable, in fact. They would have to discuss this, the two of them, and come to some sort of resolution. He would call upon her as soon as this estate business was done. So resolved, Gareth jerked open the door to the estate office.

A rangy, rough-faced man in a wool surtout stepped forward, his hand extended. “Your Grace,” he said promptly. “I’m Benjamin Watson, your agent.”

Antonia was on her knees in the family chapel when Nellie found her there near midmorning. The chapel was in an unheated part of the old castle, and musty with the scents of melted wax, moldering velvet, and dank stone. There was little light save that which came through the narrow mullioned windows flanking the chancel and from the three candles which Antonia had lit near the altar.

“Your Grace?” Nellie peeked into the gloom. “Ma’am, are you in there?”

Slowly, Antonia rose, the heavy folds of her cloak unfurling from the cold stone floor. “Yes, Nellie. I’m here.”

“Lud, I wondered where you’d got to!” Nellie made her way through the chancel. “How long have you been on your knees like that, ma’am?”

“I am not perfect sure,” Antonia hedged.

“Ooh, this is a damp, gloomy place.” Nellie rubbed her arms and looked about. “You’ll get the rheumatism if you stay in here, my lady. And you have missed your breakfast.”

Antonia smiled a little weakly. “I had no appetite,” she murmured. “I wished to spend some time alone. I should have told you.”

Nellie looked down at the flickering candles. “Three candles today, ma’am?”

“Yes, one for Eric,” she quietly acknowledged. “I suppose…I suppose I was feeling charitable this morning.”
Or guilty,
she silently added.

Nellie shifted her weight uneasily. “I wanted to say something, ma’am,” she said. “About last night.”

Antonia turned and started down the aisle. “Must we speak of it, Nellie?”

Nellie followed her. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said, touching her lightly on the arm. “But it was dangerous for you to be up there alone. And in the rain, too. You might yet take ill from it. And you scared the life out of me.”

Antonia stopped by the chapel door. “Forgive me, Nellie,” she answered. “I did not mean to be so thoughtless.”

“You did not take your sleeping draught, did you?” the maid pressed.

Antonia shook her head. “I…I thought I would not need it,” she answered. “So I poured it out.”

“You scared me, ma’am,” Nellie said again more firmly. “I have not seen you quite like that in an age.”

“You needn’t worry.” Antonia pushed open the door and went out into the fresher air of the passageway. She paused and drew the air deep into her lungs. “I just think the apprehension yesterday ran deeper than I grasped, Nellie. I will be more careful in the future.”

“You mean the new master’s arrival?” asked the maid. “Aye, everyone was on tenterhooks. But you have more at stake than any of us.”

Antonia said nothing and drew the folds of her cloak tighter.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” said Nellie. “But was there something else you wished to tell me?”

“Such as?”

“Something about…about last night, perhaps?”

Swiftly, Antonia shook her head. “No, nothing,” she answered. “Nothing at all.”

“Very well then,” said Nellie as they started up the stairs. “Shall you walk this morning, Your Grace? I didn’t know which things to lay out.”

It would be good, Antonia realized, to get out of the house. She needed to get away, and Nellie was right. She could not stay on her knees in the damp chapel all day.

“I’m going down to the village,” Nellie suggested. “I’m going to replace all your black ribbons and pick up that gray velvet bonnet.”

“No, not the village,” murmured Antonia. “But thank you, Nellie.”

Antonia wished for solitude. A walk in the woods, perhaps? Or perhaps she would make the long trek up to the dower house and have a look around. It mightn’t be in such bad shape after all. Besides, she could scarcely afford to be choosy now. Perhaps she could make do with something which was a little shabby and get out of Selsdon even sooner than was planned? Perhaps God was already answering her prayers.

“Not the village,” she said again. “No, I think, Nellie, that I shall walk up to Knollwood. Or perhaps down to the deer park, and have a poke about the pavilion.”

Coggins was in his narrow office by the great hall sorting through the morning’s post when Gareth returned from his meeting with Mr. Watson. The butler seemed surprised when Gareth appeared at his elbow.

“Has the duchess come down this morning?” Gareth cut a glance down at the tidy piles of letters the butler had laid out across the green baize of his secretary.

“No, Your Grace,” said Coggins. “Not as I’ve seen. But her maid went out perhaps a quarter hour past.”

Gareth tapped his finger thoughtfully atop one of the letters. It was from London, and addressed to Antonia. “Does the duchess have a great many acquaintances in Town, Coggins?” he asked musingly.

“I believe she once did, Your Grace.”

“People whom she met through my late cousin?”

Coggins hesitated. “His Grace’s companions were mostly country gentlemen,” said the butler. “He and the duchess had few friends in common.”

“Ah,” said Gareth.

The butler took pity on him. “I believe the duchess’s brother resides in Town, Your Grace,” he explained. “He is a very sporting sort of fellow, I collect, and popular in certain circles.”

“Gaming and horse racing, eh?” said Gareth a little cynically.

Coggins smiled faintly. “I believe he has a fondness for both, yes,” he answered. “And the duchess knew many of his friends prior to her marriage to the late duke. Some of those gentlemen, I believe, have taken it upon themselves to console Her Grace in her widowhood.”

And sniff around for a fortune in the process, too, Gareth did not doubt. “How altruistic they sound.”

Coggins lifted his brows a telling fraction. “I couldn’t say, sir.”

But Gareth could see that Coggins shared his own opinion. With the black cloud of Warneham’s death hanging over her good name, scoundrels were likely the only suitors she would attract.

On impulse, Gareth snatched Antonia’s pile of letters. “I was just on my way up to speak with the duchess,” he said. “I’ll drop these by, shall I?”

Coggins had little choice. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Gareth made his way back upstairs to the sitting room which connected the ducal bedchambers. If her maid was indeed out, Antonia would not be able to avoid him. She would have to answer the door.

He knocked and was relieved when Antonia appeared. But her face drained instantly of all color. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “Good morning.”

He did not ask if he might come in, for he had the distinct impression she might refuse him. Instead he strode into the room and laid Coggins’s tidy stack of letters on the rosewood secretary just inside the door. “I’ve brought the morning’s post.”

“Thank you.” She still stood by the open door, her hand upon the knob. “Was…was there something else, Your Grace?”

He clasped his hands behind his back as if restraining himself from something he did not understand. Damn it, he wished she’d not been so beautiful. So fine-boned and fragile. A porcelain princess, truly. He paced to the bank of windows opposite, then back to the door again.

“It’s like this, Antonia,” he finally said. “There’s no sense avoiding it. I think that we must talk about what happened last night.”

She did not move from the door. “About…last night?”

Since she seemed incapable of doing so, Gareth pushed the door shut. Her hand fell to her side. “Antonia, are you all right?” he demanded. “I have been worried sick. When you did not come down to breakfast, I feared you might be ill.”

“But as you see, I am fine,” she answered, stepping back from him.

Gareth was not perfectly sure he agreed, given her lack of color. And he did not like the distance which lay between them this morning; distance which the duchess was taking pains to maintain, both literally and figuratively. She had circled behind a giltwood settee now, as if doing so might somehow protect her.

“Antonia,” he finally went on, “we made a dreadful mistake last night. It was…imprudent. And I will admit, I am mostly to blame. You were not yourself. You were obviously distraught and—”

Something like horror flashed across her face. She whirled about and went at once to the bank of windows. He followed on her heels, lightly touching her shoulder. “Antonia?”

He felt her tremble beneath his touch.

“Antonia, I am sorry. I think we must put this behind us, my dear.”

She leaned forward and set her fingertips to the glass, as if longing to meld into it and vanish. “I do not know what you are referring to,” she rasped. “Will you kindly go now?”

“I beg your pardon?” His grip tightened.

Another deep shudder ran through her. “I thank you, Your Grace, for your concern,” she said. “I…I did not sleep well. I often do not. Whatever—that is to say, if something happened—then I cannot—”

At that, he forced her around. “
If
something happened?” he demanded. “
If?
By God, woman, you know as well as I what we did last night.”

She shook her head, her eyes wild. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t—I don’t—really remember. Please, let us just forget it.”